A Little Push
by KayosHybrid
Summary: Joker's sanity has never been rocksolid, but what happens when he gets an unexpected tormentor? Complete
1. Chapter 1

Joker skipped around in glee, twirling and skipping haphazardly in mid-steps as he waltzed himself across the strategically chosen rooftop, arms spreads out and fingers splayed. He felt like some sort of panel – absorbing all the heat from the inferno bursting into life all around him. Buildings, some decrepit from neglect, simultaneously in utter random order began to detonate, destructive blooms growing out and throwing their pollen of debris as if to pass it on. The stench of burning wood, oil and various other metals rose up like an invisible fog, and Joker inhaled deeply with distracted content.

After a simple horrific lapse in security the Joker had slipped from the truck designated to custody along the route, having to claw, bite, kick and thrash his way through the heavily armoured men who were too instantaneously hesitant to kill him. Except this one guy, whose eyes shone with this familiar gleam – but he had to let him go. In the hench sense that is – couldn't have a psycho who wanted him dead on his own little team. And as officials went cold at the catastrophically simple error, Joker had danced his way to a safehouse to begin all over again like he hadn't been upheld in the first place.

Turned out the mob had more money coming in – a sleazy drug dealing joint concentrated heavily in the Narrows. They got hundreds of citizens a day hooked and entrapped in their little money making scheme, leeching from their own society – clever ol' chums. But they purposefully left poor old Joker out of the loop, therefore never claiming to give him 'half'. It probably was all a little pretend session to convince him they were truly appalled by his price. Cept that one greasy Russian – gah, such a shame he had to be mutilated, he really had potential to be a partner in business. But Joker took it lightly – afterall, one prank deserved one in return! Which involved blowing them all sky high.

And as usual, the added bonus of his favourite costumed anti-hero paying a visit! A little rough play to spark his seemingly endless masochism, a lot of growling and snarling to confirm his quips were doubtlessly clawing away at his sanity, and then a tantalizing finish which left him twirling away tauntingly in hopes of only enticing his rage further.

Time slushed together beautifully – all he could feel was the pressing heat beating at his body in gusts, singing at the hems of his clothing, embers stinging his nose and the roof of his mouth as he breathed it all in with relish. The night swept upwards into the heavens, appalled by the destruction below, and refused to be illuminated. It reminded him of Batman recoiling and brooding at a constructed comment or myriad of gestures, and he spun on his heel with a giggle.

It felt like he'd only been dancing for a few minutes before he heard a familiar grating tone grinding its way roughly up a throat and surprisingly translating into barely intelligible English.

"Don't like the joke being on you, do you?"

His eyes flashed around, utter awareness filling the black pools immediately and fixating on the object of his patience. He saw the dark stoic figure almost swallowed by roaring fires – his explosions had all gone off quite a few dozen minutes ago, it seemed, but were still devouring everything around. Batman was in mint condition, having swooped in almost magically without burning himself. Of course Joker had left a few haphazard escape routes without explosives (not really checking, didn't want to make it too easy now) but Batman didn't seem the walking type.

Joker lathered his constantly moist lips, a habit he had no control over and which also made the Batman inwardly twitch from disgust at the strange click. Especially when he tongued at the infamous contusions rippling his cheeks. He half skipped over a few steps before changing his mind and halting smoothly with a suave sway of his long coat, one hand tinkering restlessly with a switchblade. After remaining there undecided of his destination, peering curiously and thoughtfully at the Bat, he finally erupted back into movement, throwing his arms out to gesture the glory around.

"Can you blame me, hmm?" He spurted indignantly, initially meaning his revenge, before cocking one foot up, ankle to the ground, and bent his spine in a parody-like bow, drawing out his words with an exasperated, sheepish little grin. "Can you blame me for wanting to have a little fun?"

"Funs over, I'm taking you in, you're over, Joker. If you're lucky you'll get several life imprisonments in Arkham Asylum." Batman ground out, wasting no time and surging forward in strong, precise strides.

Joker slumped his shoulders, obsidian pools looking around lazily in detached boredom, licking again irritably at his lower lip as his attention bounced back to the storming black figure without retreat, imploringly. "Been there, _done_ that," he huffed, then began gesturing with his hands, fingers splayed, knife kept in his hand by a taut thumb. "It's the authority in that place that are really the crazies, I was in a state of mental neglect!" His momentary sincere-sounding comment was steamrolled over, not even giving Batman a chance to consider. "The décor is astoundingly bor_ing_!" He bore his teeth in an emphasising grimace.

Batman ignored him utterly it seemed, and Joker sprang back as he came too close. But black gloved fists uncurled and swept out at him, snatching the loose ends of his front and snagging him back roughly. "It's were you belong!" He informed throatily with that just expression in his eyes.

Joker grunted as he was swung back forward, having no further comment but to smirk with utter impish mischief manifesting in his black eyes, burying the blade in his hand into what he estimated was one of the weaker folds of Batman's little armoured costume. He met no strong resistance, feeling the metal melt straight into flesh, hindered only by a layer or two of fabric. Batman spat out a groan and an agonised pant, jerking forward in his spot, hands fisting in Joker's vest and shirt. Joker sucked his lips into his mouth softly and smiled just for him, almost as if to mock 'oopsie!'.

Batman's eyes rose painfully back to the Joker, wholesome black and swirling, his own hardening with thought. Then the corners of his mouth twitched upwards just a tad, ending in a small but astoundingly vivid smirk. Joker's own smile skittered, eyes darting back and forth to Bat's eyes and the only skin revealed by the cowl, hitting a roadblock in his thoughts. His constantly moving body ground to a halt, only twitching erratically here and there, floored by this subtle, unanticipated return. He was also growing overwhelming curious as to what exactly brought it on.

After all Batman must be in pieces – he had left in a horrified rush after hearing the saviour of Gotham, Harvey Dent, had been warped drastically, and had probably encountered him already. Safe to say Harvey had re-evaluated where to channel his furies and his grief. That and he was obviously torn by the now microscopic debris that was once….oh damn…what was that one dame's name..? Well, that one girl he blew up, Harvey's little miss. The one that just might be two-timing the Gotham's white knight for the dark one!

Maybe Batman had gone crazy; all that stress finally clawing under his Kevlar and raking away at the man underneath – there _was_ a man underneath – and driving him over the edge of sanity into the little pit called _insanity_ that everyone fancied Joker was inhabiting. But Bats couldn't have gone crazy yet – it was too early in the game!

His face was still roughened and contorted by a grimace, but Batman was most definitely smirking now – in fact, it was growing into a sneer. Joker's gaze halted, arrested, thoughts not connecting together. Babble to spark some stronger reaction was initiated.

"Mmm Bats, you really are gonna loose it, hmm? All these explosions reminding you of a certain little affair with, ugh, that one girl…you know the one, you know..?"

The offended and outraged and desperate expression spreading over his features, followed by a confirming 'RACHEL!!' was not provoked, not in the slightest.

"I'm not here, Joker."

"…Well we'll get to her later, the cheating blushing bride to be is old news, how's little Harvey doing? I hear he's felt a little heat recently, I had a chat and even pretended to play a little game of Russian roulette with him but, you know, I, ah, misplaced the _bullets_…"

"I'm all in your imagination."

Joker stopped flat, his tongue darting back into his mouth mid-lick and his gaze snapping straight to the Batman's. He was still smirking softly – his eyes, they had this _knowing_ look to them.

"Ah, what?"

"You _imagined_ me."

The uncharacteristic words and expressions didn't click in his mind, and coherent responses lagged in their construction. He scoffed.

"I don't have the time to play I've Got Dementia, Bats, I'm too young for that kind of game."

The soft smirk lingered. "You don't even know your own age."

Hmm, now that was interesting, how did Batman know that? No, wait, he did know his own age. Kinda…no, no, he was sure he a good approximation…

Batman carried on with a ruthless pace. "Stop fooling yourself, Fool. You can't even prove firsthand people even acknowledging my existence." His tone was growing less grating, less rough, more man less Batman. It threw Joker even more off his rhythm. Batman widened his eyes in mock theatrics, raising the tone of his voice mockingly… "When you did last see someone exclaim 'Oh gee, it's the goddamn Batman!' when you and I have been in the same vicinity?"

Joker's lip twitched, his smile having melted away as the discord in his mind ran ragged with all these new concepts, considering donning a scowl. That was just ridiculous – Batman had exchanged _eye-contact_ with the GCPD – not that he'd actually seen it, but it was obvious they had communicated outside his interrogation room back at the newly appointed Commissioner's hidey-hole. Joker cocked his brow.

"Oh I seeee what game we're playing now, I guess you're insinuating I imagined everything, hmm? That I'm going to wake up and this'll all be a bad dream?"

Batman's smirk broadened, eyes crinkling in pitying mirth.

"Oh no, the rest is real. You really did blow up this place, you really did corrupt Harvey Dent and you really do dress up like a demented clown gone wrong. But somewhere along the lines you got bored. You needed a 'freak like you' to play with, someone who was opposite was so very similar so you could get kicks. So in that insane little mind of yours you made a man, dressed up in a Batsuit for god knows reasons why, to chase you around and try and 'foil' your little schemes. You associated me with justice, so, when you did something unjust, you triggered me to swoop in. Then this whole associating thing happened so it seems like you can draw me out by being a bad clown..." He chuckled and turned his head as if the whole matter was so ridiculous and too complicated for him to explain.

Joker was frozen, eyes widened and teeth grit in a silent snarl. His mind was stalling. Batman was not being Batman. This was wrong. This being a bad dream was becoming increasingly appealing, since that would also mean he'd gotten a mammoth sleep. He struggled to make all the psychological ends meet, still hanging in Batman's grasp, eyes darting across his face and his gaze.

"Ah…heh…heh…ok, ok, if you're not real and I'm imagining you, how come you're not acting how I want you to?" Joker snapped, trying to find a loophole in this distasteful game, fingers twitching.

Batman beamed at him patiently, becoming infuriatingly patronising. "Let's just say I'm the manifestation of your own doubts," He smiled broadly, and Joker twitched hard in growing lose of control and understanding over his spiralling situation. "In fact, I can prove it to you!" One fist detached and slipped into a fold of one of the layers he was wearing, pulling out his cellphone (Joker grunted in growing alarm as he realised Batman knew _exactly_ which pocket it was in) and dialled 911 with his thumb and pressed it to where the level of his ear would be against his cowl. "After all something imaginary can't be made of anything more than what you've already experienced, or already know." He added brightly, before changing his attentions from the Joker, who was twitching and stiffening up in a disorderly distress he hadn't felt in a long time, to the person on the other line asking him what his problem was.

"I'd like the police, please. Halderny Warehouse, the Narrows." Batman informed calmly with a pleasant smile.

"The police?! Halderny Warehouse…the Narrows….here?!" Joker shrieked, the building distress filling his being making a hasty escape to establish more control. He clutched at straws, hands shaking erratically in accusation as Batman promptly hung up. "HA! Ha! You called the police, you imbecilic Bat, don't think I didn't see through that, you'd have to be in this itty realm of existence to be able to tell them the _address_!"

Batman looked at him with an innocently challenging look as the phone was tucked back in its pocket. "You said it, not me. And by the sound of your voice they'll know it's an emergency."

Joker's eyes bulged. This was going out of control, this was just crazy! AHAHAHAHA! AHOO! AHA! SHIT!

"Though if the police have any brain cells they'll be scouring the city looking for you, and a figure dancing on the rooftop next to exploding buildings has got to draw some attention….you probably just narrowed down their search…"

Joker's vision was sparking, blurring, nothing made sense anymore. The inferno eating away at the structures surrounding him should be something he should be delighting in, Batman should be struggling for control as he sprang around, goading, Batman beating the crap out of him when he caught him! He should be pumped with glee, excitement, lovely pain and triumph. But his world was crashing and collapsing in around his ears. In a last feral attempt to stop this _madness_, Joker shrieked and threw all his weight forward, flooring the Batman. He tore out the knife, blood spitting over his face from the sharp withdrawal, earning a contorted grimace from his supposed beloved enemy. He stabbed down again blindly, glancing off Kevlar, struck again, glanced off, struck again and dented it, thrust it down again and finally nicked deep into flesh again, and sheathing all the way to the hilt.

Batman grunted and panted out a cry in agony, jerking hard at the second stabwound, shuddering. Joker pressed it deep, as if searching for the real Batman under all these layers of confusion. He rocked back and forth hard, his slim frame stocked with a frozen weight from his locked up muscles, keeping his wounded adversary floored.

"I'm – not – _crazy_!" He snarled, a sound crawling up from the depths of his body to emerge twisted and guttural from his lips.

"If it makes you fell better." Batman ground out with effort, fluttering gaze rising to over his shoulder. Joker stiffened up even harder, like metal rods had been placed in the core of all his bones, in response to the infuriating–

Joker lurched backwards, hands gripping hard at his arms and his shoulders, and like a snagged animal he began to thrash his limps, having kept a grip on his knife and flailed it around to wound his assailants. He suddenly became aware of the heavy thump of a helicopter, the drone of sirens. Shouting, barking orders. _Fuck_. He threw himself around as he recognised his plight, further enraged by the goddamn Batman, struggling against the officers that swamped around and pinned him. His wrists were shackled, and he glanced over hastily to what was going on with his adversary; he didn't want him to be locked up away from him, that'd mean he'd have little reason to escape and play some mo—

They hadn't touched him. Batman remained sprawled on his back, chest rising and falling painfully as he panted, the space around him empty. Not a single officer glanced in his direction; their attention zoned utterly on Gotham's most wanted. No recognition, _nothing_.

Joker let out a roar, thrashing and tossing with renewed effort, dragging a few of the armoured officers in each direction in his mad unleash of burning strength bundled in his wiry limbs. They fought for control, slowly dragging Joker closer to the thump of blades, and he struggled manically all the way, peering in alarm through the throngs to try and see Batman, to make sure he didn't go up in smoke.

He had struggled to his feet, it seemed, because he was stumbling, hands over the wounds on his chest and stomach, towards where Joker was being dragged.

Joker huffed and panting and screamed, tossing every inch of strength in his lean frame to thrash himself free, skin being rubbed off ragged from his wrists, some shouting, and a needle entered the skin of his neck. He tried to struggle harder to gash himself, to break the needle, to make them miss, but several hands held his head as still as possible as the tranquilizer anaesthetic was applied.

His erratic movement was hurrying the fluid along his blood vessels in betrayal to his true goal, and he grit his teeth, until his entire head began to ache with the crush of jaws together.

Batman was still limping after him.

Helicopter had banked and landed, and he was being forced and strapped down into some sort of bed, insured with more shackles. He tossed his head, shrieking at his immobilization, turning his head so sharply to seek Batman that his neck cracked. "FUCK YOU, BATMAN! FUCK YOU! DAMN YOU! BATMAN!"

The helicopter began to hastily rise, to take him away into custody, back into Arkham Asylum, to rot, like all the other nutjobs in there. Batman just smiled weakly after him, rendering him stiff and frozen once more.

"I'll explain later!" He offered with a big smile, waving goodbye as the Joker was taken away from the inferno, from the Bat Man, from what felt like the remainders of his sanity.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to everyone who favourited, commented and watched this story, I really appreciate it! Comments (especially lengthy ones that show me all that you enjoyed) completely make my day! And I realise this story pursues a strange plot idea, but I hope you enjoy it because of that, and trust me; it's going to get weirder. Enjoy!

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Flutter – sound, temperature and fabric friction. Hard beats. Sweltering but fitfully cold. Rumble, screech and flashing lights on the ceiling. Beeps. Speech. Time's broken.

Joker did not know what exactly he had went through ever since the helicopter, but whatever it was, it made him feel _awful_. The tranquilizer had probably been the quantity to knock out a rhino, and that would explain the feverish shock. The beeping. Ah, ha, _oopsie_, we gave the clown an overdose. Protocol insists we save him – darn it. He must've lolled back into consciousness a few times, but his already shattered mind was now also filled with jagged, even smaller, pieces of memory for him to squint at and rifle through. As the effects of the drugs had taken hold in the helicopter he'd almost retched – or he might've retched anyway, he couldn't remember – the thumping of the blades, the force of the rhythmic beating of the air, had been warped. Had they put something illegal in the mixture? Because if any _normal _person had been in his position they would have screamed and soiled themselves in distress. If his focus hadn't been drowned and suffocated he might have shot suspicious glances at the officers around him, searching for a certain Jonathan Crane. The constant slap, almost like a throbbing bass, was all he could remember before he blacked out.

He had made a steady journey it seemed, through some sort of medical procedure. He could remember hushed tones and clinical beeping, the distinct smell of thoroughly clean surfaces and machinery. He must've been like some demon in there – getting his chaotic grime all over their _stuff_. A dirty, dusty, bleeding, twitching demon. He had been stripped, no doubt by abusive perverts, of his casual/formal/everyday attire, and cruelly replaced with a slightly off-colour white straightjacket; enhanced by a spiffy friction buckle. They had been respectful enough to also provide some seemingly non-tearing white pants also. But not even his socks.

At first his arms had been crushed to his chest almost brutally, causing a continuous ache to seize the muscles in cramps. After a lot of writhing and groaning, which escalated quickly into swearing and yelling, they loosened his arms a fraction. His quips bounced off the orderlies as they came and went, twisting his arms around in their captivity in hopes of wriggling them looser and looser. No chance with his spiffy little buckle.

His cell was just that; an equal quadrilateral cube. The walls were pale and padding was lined just under the surface of non-tearing…._wallpapery materially stuff_. A protrusion barely deserving of the name cot, much less bed, complete with wafer-thin pillow and a mattress without springs, stuck out from the left of his little room. A toilet behind a screen only a metre high (made of bullet-proof plastics, and rounded smoothly at all edges) was stationed in the corner.

He had explored all the pockmarks and nicks intricately within (what felt like) half an hour.

Boredom was a luxury he didn't have, and as soon as he could not entertain himself with raw curiosity, his mind clicked back into motion. Back to what had happened hours – maybe days – ago, on that godforsaken warehouse roof. Batman's severely uncharacteristic performance had shaken him right down to his funny bones.

The Joker. Was. Not. Crazy. Just….unorthodox. Breaking the mould. Thinking outside the box. But Batman's smirking, laughing and smiling, his thoughtless pleasantness and seemingly uncanny ability to figure Joker out was really starting to test this fact.

At first it seemed preposterous; Batman had been recognised by much of Gotham, including captured citizens and killed copycats, which were also broadcasted to thousands. They never did find that dead Batfake – the one he'd stored in the van of a celebratory service that you could send to people's work, home, all that. The driver looked elderly; maybe he had discovered it along the way to GCPD and had a heart attack. That poor guy. Little Brian Douglas had loads of publication though. Slamming his carcass against Major Garcia's office window was probably more direct than some delivery service that did a little jingle. Though the thought of a Batfake slumping like a sack of potatoes next to a few dancing deliverers among confetti onto Commissioner Gordon's threshold never ceased to ignite a chortle.

But if anything, the most catastrophic thing to happen to the Joker was for the Batman to tell him _it was all in his head_. _**Batman**_**.** And even _he_ claimed not to be real!

_Let's just say I'm a manifestation of your own doubts. _Batman said himself that imaginary things could only be what the imaginer already knows. Was Joker beginning to doubt his sanity…? Of course not! His work was carefully premeditated, calculated and prepared with utmost precision! No sloppy nutjob could pull off what he had. _Though getting caught was sloppy._ Joker twitched hard at that betraying thought, taken aback by it. It was…true, getting caught was sloppy, but he'd been intercepted! Little Batman, claiming to be a figment of his imagination, bouncing in and quaking the ground beneath him…

Joker worked his mouth fast and agitatedly. Look what'd been done to him! This has to be a stickup, something to drive him bananas! Oooo clever Bats is being sneaky with his tactics. That had to be it, had to. But this hopeful thought did not encourage any laughter. Rather a bubbling loathing rose up like the river Styx boiling in his belly. Poke fun at the Joker, huh? Look how hard one little performance had shaken him – it was something to learn from – but it was too close for comfort. _I'll explain later_. What did that mean anyway?

Should any Arkham staff peer through the small viewing box on his reinforced celldoor they'd see the once smooth but jittery Joker in quite an escalating state. Rocking stiffly back and forth on the ground with his legs crossed, black eyes unendingly deep pools of obsidian as thoughts rushed and clashed behind them. Unending questions and doubts and contemplations. He'd twitch hard every so often, something writhing in his long sleeves, probably his almost constantly moving fingers. Occasionally his gaze would snap up and arrest whoever was unfortunate to meet his gaze, rendering them frozen for an instant before letting the metal slab slide back over the box and flee.

It took a very brave orderly to eventually enter the room with the standard-issued meals on wheels. He wheeled in the preheated, premade food, complete with a hard rubber spoon to eat it with. It was a very special and dangerous time indeed – Joker would have to be entrusted with his own hands. The very Joker who had been suspended in intense agitation, still burning holes in the flooring of his cell from his spot on the ground, mind whirring madly without rest. It'd been 3 hours, unbroken, since he was last conscious. He didn't even care to notice that even if he wanted to unleash upon this unfortunate Arkham employee he'd be quicky intercepted by the two burly guards stationed either side, just inside, of the door.

Joker still felt unstable, and was choking down screams and howls of rage at the man. Not because he was being _nice_, but because the urge was so strong he was concerned he'd never be able to stop, which wouldn't help his side on the sanity case. So he shut down each layer of himself until he reached his mind and his mind alone, and continued to fiddle with the complex Rubix cube that was the events that conspired against him and put him in this predicament.

He watched unseeingly as a dark, tall shape made its way through the slightly ajar doorway into the threshold of the cell, passing the orderly lying down the last of the pathetic meal before fleeing. Joker came to himself in a snap as he realised he recognised that big black shape, eyes flashing to the orderly – the stupid man hadn't glanced at the hulking vigilante _once_!

His situation hit him like an oversized hammer once again, overwhelming his seemingly unending clever mental capacity, causing him to stall. Black eyes flashed up and tried to drill into the Kevlar. This goddamn bat had skipped his way in without..!...without even the tiniest recognition! HE WAS REAL, DAMMIT!

Raves and declarations of the Batman's presence to draw in the orderlies and guards, to prove his _existence_, electrified the tip of his tongue with intent. To have the satisfaction of the shock on the faces of those incarcerating him, the trapped look to grace Batman's once cold eyes. Then everything would be back in motion, not in entire order, but back to how things were supposed to be.

But Joker decided, if anything, to gain his mantel in this exchange by being crafty. He had to try and calm the enormous need to justify his certainty, to leave that for a more tactile time. As much as he was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the violent surge of emotion coursing through him just from the controversial presence of his beloved Batman, he was also enraptured by curiosity. Deadly curiosity, perhaps.

Not only could he flex the limits of his control for his benefit for now, Joker had indeed had a lot of time to _consider_. To consider the events that had taken place, the repercussions and where it left him, and where it left the Batman. What exactly _was_ Batman's motivation to this curious behaviour? Thoughts flashing a memory of Bat's proclamation of Joker's own inner doubts, perverting his initial thought trail into wondering if Batman had a sole motivation of his own mental making. Joker's black gaze never faltered, but his innards must've cringed. How could he be actually questioning himself?

But Joker knew how to appear unfazed; he was simply unfazed so much of the time. It required a little force, but his newfound taster of self-destructive chaos never flickered on the surface, despite the knowing glitter in the vigilantes eyes.

It finally occurred to him that they had been scrutinising each other for a few minutes now, and the silence was dragging out, almost appearing nervous. Frustratingly it was _Batman_ who seemed comfortable enough to break the ice.

"Hope you like your room, I tried to get a welcome matt outside." Batman cracked with a goofy sneer. It almost seemed appropriate for a little jingle sound effect to a bad joke to suddenly come out of nowhere to punctuate it. And had it been any other situation, Joker would have babbled on about Batman's newfound humour, his delight at its discovery and to continually prod Batman into agitated silence about it. But he was struggling to get a certain thought in edgeways from the mess rushing furiously around in his head.

"Oh? What happen, they didn't want to alienate me from the rest of the, ah, patients?" Joker drawled smoothly, movements adopting a more fluid air. Honestly he didn't know how much more different he was being treated; was he the sole true 'nutcase' in here? Something to think about for another time. He flexed his crossed legs, working out the stiffness from his muscles. On second thought he stretched them straight out, curling his back in a stretch and wiggling his toes in satisfaction. Batman's sneer had adopted a softer look, almost empathetic. Joker fought not to thin his lips in anxiety; he got the feeling this was going to get worse.

"Something like that."

"So, why pay old me a visit, hmm? Surely you've got _innocent citizens_ to flap off to save, or is everything really getting boring already?"

"Oh, my 'work' is on hold. You being incarcerated made me lose purpose. It's not like I can actually exist outside of Arkham now." Batman chuckled lightly.

"OH yeah," Joker exclaimed heatedly, caught in a barely contained spurt of frustration. "You're _imaginary_ right? So, ah, gonna do some _imaginary_ things, hmm?" A devious smile curled his lips as a thought fluttered into his mind. "If I daydream vividly enough, will you be _naughty_, Batman?"

Batman shuffled, Joker sure he had spotted the reflex of a swallow in the throat – but it was so hard to tell, what with all the layers of armour. Batman seemed to recover with a sigh.

"No….I came here to answer any questions you had," Seemingly to pick up comfortable ground, he smiled gently again. "No doubt you have them."

"More than you know," Joker growled with a sheepish, slightly sharp grin, edged with agitation. He rocked forward, inclining his head. "How will you be able to answer my questions, hmm, ImagiBat?" Referring to the running joke of his non-existence. Batman seemed to pick it up immediately.

"Oh it's really very simple," Batman began cheerfully, starting to subtly gesture with his hands. "Being utterly created by your own conscious and subconscious, I have, let's say, 'access' to pretty much everything. Deep down, somewhere in that fractured mind, you know the answers; you just don't want to admit it. Out loud, to yourself, to others, to me; it'd ruin the illusion. I'm just like a voice piece, really."

Somewhere at the very beginning of this brief explanation, Joker had furiously snapped 'nonsense!' in hopes of illustrating some normality into this bizarre situation. Now, he was leant back, away, face blank and creased with bafflement. None of it made relevant sense to reality, but the certain, confident way in which Batman had explained it had now totally thrown him. Batman noticed, gesturing a hand diplomatically – a gesture you'd give to the fragile. Joker could tell he was about to offer some question time.

"Stop bullshitting me," His tone had dropped, signifying he was tired of this particular game, and had resorted to being blatant, but tone lifting as his excitement suddenly grew. "How could you possibly be all in my head, you stupid bat! The whole of Gotham are buzzing about the masked, mean ol' vigilante by the alias of 'The Batman'. Do you watch the news? I sure do. It's depressing for most because of all the death, but it's basically an awards ceremony when your own work is up. So what about that, Bat? Need me to request some tapes of GCN to jog your memory of your own damn existence? Tell me, is this just an elaborate plan for you to shift your own, ah, issues onto me? Is it my fault, Batsy? Did I make you upset?"

Batman looked exasperated, smiling, as if the questioning was genuinely too much, too many to answer. Bizarrely Joker waited for him to start up with something along the lines of 'hold you're horses, there, cowboy!'. His high began to dip as his own enthusiasm hadn't ignited anything interesting, Batman descending into that pleasant calm that Joker was beginning to detest with every cell in his body. He was holding up his hands to ward of further questions. Bastard.

"Well, even if you did stand a chance getting tapes by request, you wouldn't get anything. There aren't any tapes with any mentioning of me, and there's no way police and the news corporation will waste their time on you. What makes you think I was ever mentioned on the news?" His tone was changing again; not entirely empathetic anymore, steely. "Look, it's an elaborate auditory and optical hallucination, created by your own deprived, psychotic mind. Who could've talked about me, other than you? Your henchclowns? Maybe you weaved them bedtimes stories about the Man in the Batsuit, and you had a little fanclub of lunatics for me, all of you babbling on about 'Batman, Batman, Batman'…"

Joker wasn't giving up. Batman couldn't make up excuses forever, there were a lot more flaws to this game.

"How about that little playtime we had down at the new Commissioner's prison? The, hehe, interrogation?"

"Hallucination. The Commissioner never mentioned me, remember? And I just appear in this high security holding cell and interrogation room? For all you know he _was_ getting coffee. Or when your episode got noticed, no one wanted to interfere. And when that cop came inside, he was probably checking you wouldn't headbutt anymore of the screens."

"The fucking bat-signal!"

Batman paused, and Joker leant forward sharply in triumph. How are you gonna worm your way out of that one, Batsy boy?

A wry smile twitched onto Batman's lips. "Faulty equipment… and seeing what you wanted to see. Or maybe you made it by yourself, another part to solidify your little _fantasy_."

Joker was running out of excuses, he was running out of excuses, _he was running out_, out of Arkham, Arkham Asylum! He tugged bound hands and inclined his head, gesturing to the left side, to the 3 clean scars made by the gauntlets on Batman's arms, the ones whose wonderful bladed barbs just shot out.

"What about these, hmm? What about these little numbers?"

Batman simply shrugged, sniffing nonchalantly. "Self-inflicted. Just like the ones on your mouth."

There was a shocked silence. Then unchecked rage, disbelief and furious indignation rose up like surging, high-pressured magma from the deepest pits of his body, steadily escalating – taken aback and _**insulted**_**.**

"_How dare you_." Hissed through grinding, gritted yellow teeth.

But his deadly threatening, quaking demeanour went ignored, because Batman seemed to have lost interest. Like it was a lost cause. Like he was_ done for the day_.

"You've got a lot to think about. A lot to digest. I'll be back soon to explain the rest." Batman added softly with what must've been intended to be a reassuring nod, before seeing himself out, closing the thick security door behind him. And then he was gone.

Joker's gaze flickered down, body tense but boneless from a sudden fatigue, his entire frame trembling from the mass of unchecked emotional uproar and mayhem brimming and spilling over, unable to express it in its intensity and magnitude.

His food lay forgotten and cold on the ground a few feet in front of him. The employee had even forgotten to undo his straightjacket to eat it in his haste to leave. Though his appetite had long since abandoned him.

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There are an estimated two more chapters to this story, and don't worry, all shall be explained in the last chapter. Please Read and Review!


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to all who alerted, favourited and especially reviewed A Little Push so far, and thankyou for all those (even anonymous) who are sticking to this bizarre story. I can promise in this chapter strangeness hits its peak! Enjoy!

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It wasn't long before the Joker's inner brimming bedlam actually boiled over.

At first he had remained frozen and quaking on the ground, mind having descended into such a frantic, disorientated state that he didn't trust himself to stand should he numbly tumble right over. Even when the disorientation left and he attempted to stand, he did the same thing anyway; he had much earlier had his legs fill with the pointless sensation that is 'pins and needles' (a lot less fun than it sounds) that went on to numb the feeling in his entire lower half. After flexing his legs around to promote the blood flow back to normal, and Joker was on his feet, he had immediately broke into pacing. His mind was in such disorder that comprehensible thought was a struggle, and it was that inability to clearly think things through that finally had that throbbing thread of patience snap.

From outside any guards, doctors, nurses or orderlies going about their business would have immediately been drawn to the sudden outburst of noise from the Joker's cell, which had been eerily quiet since his admittance.

Having almost reached the mind-shattering peak of near every emotion he new he possessed, Joker had exploded into motion, yelling in his rage and his distress and throwing himself against the walls. His leaps and surges were blindly determined by fury, determined to bring down Arkham brick by brick just with his own body as the sledgehammer, to search the length and breadth of Gotham city in search of all evidence to Batman's location; then he was going to blow that place to hell.

Shakily a doctor had slid the viewing slab away from the boxed window, peering within to see their patient tossing about the room and rebounding off the surfaces with thuds and shouts. There was a moment when the Joker threw himself awkwardly too far to the back corner, violently smacking his flank against the jutting toilet screen, and the doctor cringed, calling for guard summons in case this episode grew out of control.

But each and every time a part of his body bloomed in agony, a small part of the Joker calmed. It ignited again straight after, but with less ferocity. Noticing this, he immediately worked harder to try and damage his cell (and coincidentally himself).

Doctors and guards watched steadily as this behaviour went on for an hour, the violence of the Joker's movements deteriorating after 45 minutes were up, apparently exhausting himself. True to their suspicions, some 20 minutes after his movement had slowed, he had finally stopped. The Joker stood awkwardly near the centre of the cell, breathing heavily in exertion, all injuries hidden underneath his off-colour uniform. The doctors knew for certain that he was in immense pain, and discussed whether they should be going inside. However, the motion of turning their heads to consult each other drew the Joker's gaze, and, enraged for once for having an audience (a fucking ignorant audience who weren't seeing what he wanted them to see) the Joker charged and full out leapt straight into the door with a resounding slam. Alarmed, the staff had moved back and the slab fell back into place.

Like a spent, furious monster, hoarse panting and huffing was heard from behind the door. No one dared go inside to check on him.

Joker had remained hunched up against the foot of the door, having thrown the majority of his side, bound arms and stomach into the door for maximum force. He pressed to it as he gained his breath, every inch of his flesh aching from the abuse, listening for movement behind the door. It wasn't until he was certain the staff had left did he stand, dizzy from all the times his head had hit the walls with a 'thunk', and went to his cot to recover and think.

That had been a few days ago. Days spent riddled with an intense infection of anxiety, gnawing at his insides with a distinctly insistent manner, which made his days and nights even more unpleasant. Over and over he replayed the fragments of their conversation, everything making absurd, preposterous sense each time. And every time he found himself thinking that, he shouted out in frustration.

If any of the staff thought Joker had been in a dire state, they knew they were wrong in thinking it couldn't get worse. Rocking, pacing, restless muttering, sudden outbursts and violence had grown common. For an entire day he ignored the meals brought inside, spending the entire night and following morning tossing slightly around the room. The next day, exhausted from the intense confusion and escalating doubt and frustration, seeing that same meals on wheels guy, _the very same who had not noticed Batman_, had sent him into another rage; and the delivery boy had been the victim.

Even without his arms the Joker had managed to disable him to the floor, and was kicking and stomping on his yelling form even as the guards lifted him from the ground by his shoulders, shrieking 'BLIND AS A BAT' over and over as he was dragged away. Another surge to be freed ended with him almost biting off one of the guards' nose Hannibal Lector style, earning him an undisciplined punch in the face and the guards the right to have him sedated. Heavily. But not before he was trussed up in a medical bed and wired to a bag of nutrients for his 'self-inflicted malnutrition'.

When the Joker was finally relocated, unconscious, to his cell, and had come to, he just stared at the ceiling in hate and despair. He was beginning to struggle to comprehend why all this was happening to him; he should be out in Gotham city cutting the breaks on juggernauts carrying fuel thus rendering most of Gotham without gasoline, and take advantage of everyone's stranded situation so they paid more attention while he sent a 'MISSING' plea for Batman. _'About 6"1 feet, wears a cape and a scowl at all times. Responds to 'Batsy' and 'Mindfucking Shithead'_. Gee, he'd even put a hefty reward of all his spare piles of banknotes for the existing discovery and return of the masked vigilante.

With great relief Joker found a distraction; the curiosity to how he was being treated in comparison to the rest of the facility. A weak distraction, but one that worked nonetheless.

Because of course the Joker had only briefly been here before, having escaped straight after like he'd never been upheld in the first place. And even when he had been dragged from his cell he never took the time to admire his surroundings. Was he in some special wing for Hardcore Nutters? Was he at the end of an eerily clean corridor, a solitary door surrounded by police CAUTION tape? Or was his cell one of many lined up next to other cages, the insane howling and barking in their cages like they were all in a dog pound?

Joker giggled lightly, wondering what the late Harvey Twoface would think of that extending to the comment he made about chasing cars. Even if it were a pound, he doubted it was flourishing for business; only sickoes would adopt crazies. He paused. Were things _so_ primitive here that they euthanized nutjobs getting ahead of their time? If they were irreversibly ill? Because Joker knew that he'd sure be here for a long damn time…_Gotta get out, gotta get out, gotta get out_…

Unfortunately the tangent of distraction had made a surreptitious U-turn right back into anxious ground. He glared fiercely at the walls of his cell, perhaps intending to burn holes through them with gaze alone. But the non-descript surfaces didn't respond, and the growing sense of feeling trapped remained. Trapped waiting for Batman to visit again.

His stomach churned. _Batman. _Why was he taking so damn long? Trying to kill him with dread?

He felt himself fill up, like dense smoke, with something akin to paranoia again. Batman….oh Batman….the unreal product of a bored psycho, he says….Joker made it all up to _solidify the fantasy_, he says…doesn't know his own age…he can't really…how can he be so sure…was he really just….proof…need proof…just deranged…completely transformed…he _knows_ things…can't doubt…_doubting_…doubting…questions, _questions_, manic answers…_gotta get out_, gotta get _out_…just making it all up….bored, _bored_…in a cage, no exit…ghost Bat, imaginary friend…crazy, crazy _not_ crazy, crazy…

Joker was lost within himself, the mad rush of whispering thoughts tumbling out of his mouth along with sudden cries of grinding frustration, arms writhing around jerkily in their binds. Something ignited him for a split second and his body lurched as if to lash out to defend against his inner suspicions, launching himself to the floor. He grunted upon impact but wasn't roused, instead rolling half onto his stomach and pressed his forehead into the floor, trying to persuade the thoughts to spill out; like blood. His bent legs began to straighten awkwardly, toes dragging along the smooth surface, and the motion repeated in a loop, like he was lethargically trying to walk while lying twisted on his side. Time slurred together.

"Stop that," A steady voice cut through the restless mayhem in his head. "it'll do you no good."

"Get out!" Joker snapped, slurring into the rest of his babble. Oh you're coming to invade my _head too_ now are you, Bats?!

The sound of a sigh, and the sound of his cell door closing. He shivered with anger; if it was another member of staff come to bother him again…then he remembered.

Joker turned his head, letting the beaten carpet rub his mutilated cheeks warm as he faced the looming vigilante he had been waiting on. His legs stopped moving, going limp with tire. A small tide of relief washed through his blood when he realised he had not been hearing things, but his anxieties returned full force at the presence of his tormentor.

"What do you propose?" He growled in response, stiffening a little.

Batman exhaled heavily through his nose again, lips thinned in tire. There was a moment's silence, his eyes considering, before he replied.

"You can't go on like this. _We_ can't go on like this." The Joker twitched. "The illusion is breaking down slow and painfully, it'll only damage you more when it's finally gone; like the cracks on a breaking mirror."

"How poetic, Bat…oh, I suppose I compliment myself."

"Mmm. Look what it's doing to us, to you. I can help end it you know."

Joker paused, looking at him. Then his eyes narrowed into slits, tensing with shock. Was he implying he….? Hit by realisation, he suddenly broke out in cackles, pressing into the floor as he kicked his legs and giggled away in sick mirth.

"Oh Batman, you controversial little thing! Are you , _aha_, telling me _mercy killing_ isn't part of your rule? Are you saying you agree with, _ahhhaHA_, _assssssisted suicide_?" He rolled onto his back, snorts and hisses of laughter falling between a clenched grin to suppress it.

Batman's eyes frowned, posture awkward, as if he'd been caught out or completely thrown off. _It is, it isn't, it is, it isn't; come on the suspense is killing me here!_

"..No, that's not what I meant."

The giggling man hissed out a tickled sigh, at a struggle letting his giggles go, suddenly very glad Batman hadn't been offering to help him kick the bucket ahead of schedule. Mood very much improved by Batman's guarded look, he worked his shoulders and made a few rocking motions to swing himself up into a sitting position.

"So what _do_ you mean?" He asked, lips curling; finally he felt on top, top dog, he'd caught Bat out, he didn't look so confident. A long-forgotten predatory, clever gleam returned to his irises as he eyed the black statue.

"I didn't mean death. I meant…a cure—"

"—a _cure_? I'm not a _disease_, Bat, I'm insulted—"

"—not that kind of cure. The final clue. The last piece of proof. Like shattering the mirror with one blow." A determined, cold, grave look had graced Batman's eyes.

Joker looked at him curiously, nervous. A cure? Final clue? Last piece of proof? _This ought to be good._ Shattering the mirror…he stiffened up, head warningly beginning to buzz again, his tongue uneasily darting out of his mouth. Was he going to hit him? Had he lied, was he really going to kill him? _What was it_?

Batman sighed again, lowering his head a little as a glove hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose (well, his mask) in preparation, before both hands came up and gripped the neckpiece, a few clicks and clasps heard. His fingers splayed over his eyeholes and under the nose for grip.

"You've never seen my face, so I don't…" He trailed off as the mask was slipped from his head.

Joker turned to lead, breath escaping him lungs and leaving them to shiver. Shock and horror arrested him. Ever muscle of his body had solidified to rock, a violent shuddering breaking out on his body, along with cold sweat. Eyes bulged out of his sunken eye hollows.

He saw his chin and lips…but….no…hair….it was like looking at the first step of moulding a mannequin. Smooth, featureless. Joker sucked in sharply with a choke.

"….have one."

The Batman had no face.

The Joker screamed.

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He left right after the noise began, the sound ringing in his ears. From memory he turned and exited swiftly so not to provoke him further, closing the door behind him. His helm was held numbly in his curled fingers as the door was locked. All around him he could feel and hear the deep disapproval of doctors and psychiatrists, and the uneasy relief of the GCPD. They didn't touch him, or remove his disguise. That was the deal.

Behind him the mad, terror-stricken screams of the former tormentor of Gotham city sliced through the silence, going on screaming until he ran out of breath, before starting up again as if he could do nothing else. A few thuds punctuated the screams. Probably his head.

He did not remove the layers of makeup, prosthetics and silicone coating his face, except for the two small pieces pressed over his eyes so he could see. He ignored the weary, stiff gaze of James Gordon, standing gripping his own upper arms to stem the defeated frustration. The head of Arkham Asylum, along with all his staff, was staring hard at him, but he didn't return their stare. He was drained from what had transpired.

Hearing no one bother to make a complaint, he silently left down the hall, numbly eager to leave this dreadful place. He strode away with dignity until the screams of his shattered nemesis dwindled into nothing, heading back to his headquarters by the docks. He was finished, at last.

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The plot thickens -- or has it become clearer? Coming up is the last segment of A Little Push, stay tuned for updates on the story and a startling conclusion. Please Review! 3


	4. Chapter 4

The last segment of A Little Push is finally here! I may be the only one breathlessly waiting for it to be finished and submitted, but to all readers who have been enjoying this story I hope it feeds you to satisfaction. An extensive close to the story that is A Little Push, I worked hard on getting this perfect. Thank you, thank you, to all who reviewed, it made writing this even more worthwhile. I can only hope you enjoy this as much, or even more, as I enjoyed writing it. Enjoy!!

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It had been a long time since he got a long, wholesome period of sleep. Throughout his life he had never slacked on a job, or allowed himself to remain stationary or without something to do. He was practical; immersing himself in tasks and routines even when it wasn't required of him. As a younger, vengeful man numbing with hate he had sought out answers all over the world, unorganised and reckless in his decisions. He trained long and hard, disciplined his mind and his body to an exceptional standard. His interest never settled on his family's business; never on discussing business partnerships or signing agreements, looking over assessments or firing and rehiring secretaries. His interest was on promoting general public concern for one another, for sacrificing what he owned to benefit the worse off. And most of all; to destroy crime.

This did not happen overnight. You couldn't charge through a city throwing magical dust that turned everything good and peaceful, especially not in a capitalistic, crime-ridden city like Gotham.

Wayne Enterprises played a huge role in Gotham's financial and social structure, benefiting hundreds of those in need everyday; fundraisers, charity events, new constructions, healthy donations to a number of organisations, hospitals and schools. He may not want to personally control Wayne Enterprises, but he certainly didn't want to remove it either. But it hadn't been the practical, result-gaining method he wanted to help Gotham with.

Then came his gradual epiphany and the birth of his alter-ego anti-hero was born. While his closest friends and associates were managing his inherited company, he spent his nights out of the public eye breaking down underground and overground criminal activity every night, even taking on the mob, and Don Salvatore Maroni. Crime was steadily decreasing because of his ruthless crusade for justice, apprehension spreading over the individuals of the crime world before he'd even caught up with them. He then had to spend his days acting an egotistical fool. Good times.

But then things got ugly. He hadn't foreseen his extreme actions drawing and provoking extreme reactions in response. Having been naïve, thinking that just because he stormed through a rockslide doesn't mean the boulders were going to shy away into dust. And so rose a man of many extremes, an enigma and a maelstrom; the Joker. So disturbingly a man but so blatantly a monster, this unique criminal appeared out of a bloom of fire smoke and had immediately terrorised and infested Gotham city with his psychopathic games and taste for mayhem. The Joker was the grotesque, screaming extreme that even he could never have foreseen. Unlike the smartly-dressed, rich, prime and sarcastically-mannered members of the mob, who hid behind false social status and their money to hide their ugly sides. This man, this clown, apparently had embraced his oddity, and wore it like a medal. It was like staring at two pieces of art; one is subtle, dull on the surface, pseudo-humbly mannered; but you know there's something suspicious hidden beyond it. The second is vibrant, extravagant, in-you-face and confrontational, everything is there and thrust into your hands; all you can do is try to find what to do with it because when you try to see deeper you just see a nothingness.

He had never studied art at college or university, but he had studied and learned many things about the criminal mind. But even that had failed him. His only certain instant-result option was out of the question.

It had taken a long time, a lot of shocks and losses before he had come to conclusion to do what he did. It had been gruelling, but it got its results.

Now it was over. He could enjoy a steadier lifestyle, a regular sleeping pattern, to build a genuine social life if he could. Instead of being the idiotic playboy Bruce Wayne or the publicly despised and feared vigilante Batman, he now had the chance to…just be Bruce.

Bruce sighed softly through his nose, looking up at the unfamiliar ceiling of his penthouse bedroom. The air was fresh and lightly fragranced, the sheets below and above him were clean and warm. His body sank into the luxurious mattress, beckoning for just one more hour; he could afford to be indulgent after all. But he declined, rising out of his neglected bed and going through his routine and getting dressed. His wardrobe hadn't changed; Bruce Wayne was not a flamboyant or quirky man, and neither was Bruce.

He moved through the penthouse towards the kitchen and lounge area, met again with floor to ceiling windows, peering out over the sight of late-morning Gotham. He felt a slight pull of urgent curiosity, so quickly looked away and spotted Alfred at his deluxe stove, the kitchen busy with the preparations for a full English fry up. He walked over just as his old friend looked up and a smile warmed his face.

"Good morning, Master Bruce. You're very nearly into the afternoon hours. I didn't think to wake you, you needed the rest."

"What's all this?" Bruce questioned good-naturedly, making a gesture to the array of pans and kitchenware. His diet had long consisted of fruits, toast, eggs and coffee; protein, carbohydrate, vitamins, caffeine and minimal fat for his vigorous days and nights.

Alfred moved to continue with breakfast (lunch). "It's very rare that you have the time to feed yourself anything beyond only what you need. And your new direction in life calls for….celebration."

Bruce smiled in gratitude, moving to the coffee-maker. Alfred glanced up. "No more of that, Master Bruce, I've found you a less addicting alternative."

Bruce looked at him incredulously, brows rising. "Alternative?"

"Tea, Master Wayne, Tea," He informed with a slight hint of enthusiasm as he worked. "Good old-fashioned milk and sugar tea."

Bruce chuckled. "Just go easy on the sugar, Alfred." His hand automatically reached for the TV remote on the side, head turning fully to face the TV screen in the corner, having absentmindedly noticed it was unusually off. The gesture stopped midway, catching himself. No, he was done with that.

His slip did not go unnoticed by Alfred, who looked at him with sympathetic consideration. Bruce caught it and didn't want to look foolish, so spoke up. "Am I truly going to be able to let it go?"

"Overnight? No. In time you'll stop falling into it, hopefully never begin to miss it. But now you're obliged not to do either."

"I know," He replaced the remote onto the marble counter. There was a pause, the air punctuated by sizzling fats. Bruce's lips had thinned; his hands remained slightly braced on the counter. "…did I do the right thing, Alfred?"

His old friend looked up, his English face only subtly expressing his surprise and moving to his opinion, which was no easier to distinguish. His expression slowly settled to neutrality, but Bruce could feel the disapproval hanging in the air. "There isn't really the right way or decision. Just a better one."

They both left it at that, and Bruce moved away to the newly introduced dining table.

It'd been a few days since his last visit to Arkham, and it felt like the whole fiasco was just beginning to sink in.

Bruce had learned through his encounters with the Joker that the games were just as much psychological as they were physical, confirmation given to him by the full details of the ferry incident, and eyewitness accounts on all of his various crimes since his rise in Gotham city. But because he did not pursue anything logical, Bruce had struggled to understand what he wanted, why he did the things he did, what he was thinking. You looked at a thing like the Joker and you struggled to comprehend he _thought_ at all.

Bruce could not kill him; not as Bruce Wayne or as Batman. He wasn't a murderer. Violence and intimidation had no effect on him, but Bruce wasn't prepared to sink to his level (whatever level _that_ was). So he had to beat him at his own game.

'His own game' was certainly going to be distasteful. His plan to throw the Joker so violently that he couldn't or wouldn't cause anyone any harm ever again needed a counterweight. Though he never intended to cause severe trauma to the Joker, he knew he had to do something significant.

So he began with understanding him. He went to Arkham as Batman (unable to approach as Bruce Wayne and be taken seriously or anonymously), announcing his desperate need to know what they knew of the Joker so that he could be detained and prevented from causing crime again. It had taken a long time to get any cooperation, but finally certified psychoanalyst Dr. Charlotte Raese stepped forward. She turned out to be a trusted ally from the start; she was sincere and stoic, wanting to create the best possible situation without significant harm, but she wasn't obsessively or naively protective of the patients in her care. She understood leeway would have to be made for the situation to be improved for the better. She also knew the Joker was so effortlessly manipulative that keeping him in Arkham long-term was going to be difficult, the brief incident months ago that resulted in his escape before he was officially detained fresh in her mind. She wasn't fearless but she had come forward to him, and that was enough to prove she was potentially dedicated and relatively enthused as he.

She had begun by going over all the case files of the information they had gathered from GCPD, and all assessments and thesis done by doctorates at Arkham. His previous studies of criminal psychology had helped him speed through this process without having to pause and ask for terminology definitions, making the whole thing easier for the both of them. She then helped paint a clearer picture that surrounded the man with the pseudonym 'the Joker'.

Most probably suffering long-term or significantly self-accepted schizophrenic paranoia; maybe even fitting for some variable of OCD. It is broadly agreed he must have suffered from trauma that had strong influence on him today, most likely to have occurred in his younger years when it had maximum impact.

_But from there it gets blurry_, Raese had said with light exasperation. _He exaggerates and symbolically wears his 'madness'; he definitely wants the attention. But his motivations don't appear to be money, sexual gratification or revenge. There's evidence that the millions of dollars found burnt to ashes in a warehouse in the Narrows was originally his, given to him by the mob for unknown reasons. No bodily traces have ever been left to point to pleasure. Investigating to whether it was for revenge is even harder; there is no evidence of his identity or his past, his childhood, anything that would point to his motives. We haven't had any chances to begin therapy, and even then it is dangerous and unlikely for us to get any solid information out of him. His temperament almost guarantees he'll play so many games that even if the truth did come out, we wouldn't know any different._

Bruce had now realised that Arkham Asylum wasn't full of complete naïve idiots, and the Joker's case was indeed professionally and thoroughly being considered. His faith was renewed having found a genuine ally, countering against the hopelessness of the Joker's case.

But she went on to explain that he was most definitely precariously mentally unstable, despite his very ingeniously precise and clever ability to think and prepare; the right pressure or input would knock that stability. The other very clear thing about the Joker was his obsession for his self-proclaimed nemesis and opposite double, the Batman.

Bruce had to push away being disturbed by this revelation, knowing he had to use it to his advantage. He wanted to take advantage of both finding what that input was and using himself as the final push to knock the Joker off balance. _Madness, as you know, is like gravity_…he had inwardly cringed.

Something extraordinary had then happened; another person stepped forward. Psychotherapist Bryan Connolly proved to be a useful addition to the investigation. He was an expert in alternative therapy, ranging from art, equine, hypnosis and all other variations. He explained that sitting and talking to a patient didn't always get any results, and so he was the alternative to cognitive therapy.

_The Joker will enjoy mind and word games, but he'll get bored of it unless he feels he has someone worthy to speak to him. This could be his prideful, selfish ego and need for recognition and appreciation talking. We only have so many professionals wanting to work at Arkham, let alone with a nationally feared, enigmatic criminal psychopath._

Bruce went on to find (after a little research) that one therapy Connolly had used many a time was a strong version of shock tactics. It had a high success rate in things from beating addictions to slowly getting mild disorders to be put at bay for a long period of time.

This all proved to be the basis of the plot to end the Joker's reign of terror.

Bruce realised that whatever he planned to do, there was a risk of completely destabilising the Joker more so than the likeliness of getting him a bit better. With the murder of Gotham's salvation, Harvey Dent, and his childhood sweetheart and long time friend, Rachel Dawes, still fresh in his mind, Bruce found himself not caring in the slightest. The Joker's numerous atrocities had to be paid for because Arkham and the police force would never be able to punish him enough, not truly.

From there his plan just fell into place; all the information he'd been offered from Raese and Connolly was all of the inspiration he needed. He was going to use the Joker's unstable mind and paranoia, and fascination with his alter-ego. The Joker was not easily suggestible, but Batman's word would appeal to him. If he was made to doubt himself enough he'd lose confidence in his abilities, and more importantly, in himself, which would effectively cripple him. With him already crazy, Batman only had to play on that some more.

When he briefly explained his idea to Raese and Connolly, they immediately disapproved because of the risks to the patient. When he started insisting he was going to do it with or without their approval, Raese threatened to inform the head of Arkham and contact GCPD. He had initially been furious; betrayal so far along had thrown him. But he had no alternative; he was all out in the open with his plans. He needed to sweeten the deal.

He had Commissioner Gordon, Raese and Connolly meet him, and he made a sweeter deal. If they let him permanently have Joker away without really damaging him, he, Batman, would never return to Gotham's streets. As long as Joker was gone, so would he. Knock out two of the most wanted men in Gotham with one stone. It was a deal the police and Arkham could not refuse. The most trusted members of both organisations, over a number of weeks, worked with him to prepare; forensic psychologists gave him a thorough brief of how to answer and respond to anything the Joker said or did for maximum effect. Batman stressed (demanded) that no one ever give him recognition in the Joker's presence or the whole thing was in definite shambles. Gordon threatened jobs where on the line (Bruce suspected he never meant it) if they didn't shape up to what they were required to do. Be on standby until the Batman had a chance to confront the Joker. And so it had begun.

Bruce slid out of his reverie as his plate was set in front of him, a circle of china covered in bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, sausages, chopped tomatoes and beans all spread tightly over his plate. He was torn between wanting to relax and indulge, and having his mind drift over the series of events of the last few weeks to safely digest. Even after all of what had happened, it had never felt serene or unrealistic. Gotham was gritty and cruel; serene wasn't something you experienced often in Gotham, and especially not Bruce. Everything was always in dark, striking focus. It was almost printed into his memory by some cosmic ink.

A pearly tea cup was placed by his plate, a silent prompt to begin. Bruce smoothly went to the cutlery and went straight for what usually was needed in his usual diet, unconsciously seeking the most needed nutrience out of the pile. But even then his eating was slow and absentmindedly methodical, his mind wandering once more. He still felt pulled to continually consider.

Probably because he couldn't quite believe it was such an outstanding success.

Batman hadn't spared time for any nonsense from any member of the team he worked with, which had things moving along with urgent haste. When it was finally radioed in that there was an inferno down at the Halderney Warehouses at the Narrows, he was gone before they could personally give him any brief or rundown. His calm, cool working state had been triggered; his heart rate was only slightly increased from exertion and adrenaline.

Even when he had arrived he was still paced and still with utter calm, and urgent state of relaxation created from years of discipline. He was armed up to the teeth like he always was; he would not be Batman if he was not continually prepared. Joker was something you had to prepare for, even if he had the penchant for sliding in something truly unexpected. And Bruce had prepared. Intricately.

Bruce could not word his experiences in the presence of the Joker. He ignited all manners of caution, rage and dislike, a strange bundle of mental calm and confusion. Every gesture kept beating cold water adrenaline through his body, keeping him alive, but it also made the blood boil and the heart flutter with fury and repulsion.

Once upon the roof all patience he possessed had been put to the test. Having to watch the Joker's disturbing constant motion, even when he was still – he projected his inner motion through the atmosphere around him. If you concentrated, Bruce was sure you could measure his pulse and how fast his mind was going if you just stopped to feel the demented vibrations it caused through the air.

Becoming a facet of the Joker was not a pleasant thing, but as he played Joker's game back at him on the burning rooftop he felt the slow trickle of bitter nectar that tasted very much like power seep onto his tongue. It was ill gained good that intoxicated his senses with an earnest. To be the Joker he had to be extravagant, unpredictable and ever-changing – but to be a facet, a projected illusion, he had to be both what the Joker wanted, and what Bruce wanted. He had to be Batman, but he had to know the Joker better than he did. And he hoped that the Joker was so screwed up in his mind that he didn't know the personal details about himself. And Batman would gamble his arms and legs in favour of Joker, whether he had been utterly certain of them before, would be shaken by such a bold proclamation from his favourite fixation.

Batman had to flow within the Joker's wants and learn to twist and poison them against him. He had to harness his unpredictability, plant that deadly seed of doubt, and then the Joker would be all open and bare flesh to be manipulated in return. A taste of his own medicine. If Joker's favourite colours were, say, green and purple, Batman laughing and saying 'That's silly, your _real_ favourite colour is turquoise', a raw being such as the Joker would be unwillingly open to suggestion coming from the right mouth.

Everything had been precarious. His persona had to become uncharacteristic, but to claim it was the Joker's deprived mind that was doing it. Thrusting too much power and too many answers into shaking hands meant things were going to be dropped.

When he was first stabbed it was like any other wound, and it had to seem like that to the Joker; the Joker was a sadist, he enjoyed causing pain and turmoil. He would want a very real illusion to feel pain and get injured. And he sure as hell would have never expected (or wanted) for the Batman to get ill with the flu or some like. So there was no need to mask just how agonising it had felt.

Having an answer and an expression for everything the Joker threw at him was crucial. The entire plan was dependant on Batman being able to keep up the act. Smiling and laughing, patronising and concerned, but always allowing bits of Batman to seep through. The Joker wouldn't like this fluctuation of a character, both because it was unfamiliar and because he would be wondering why he was being this way; if it was his fault.

Searching for the cell phone had been an unexpectedly successful hit-and-miss event, Bruce considered, finding himself holding the tea cup to his lips, having gone on autopilot. Finding it on the first check had been nothing short of a miracle, one he dearly deserved in the situation. If he'd gone for the wrong pocket, he'd keep searching until he found it, his excuse being even Joker couldn't remember such things, even he wouldn't be sure; not just suggesting poor short-term memory but suggesting small areas of fragility shining through cracks, cracks the Batman could see. Tricking Joker into speaking the address had been genius; the shock was still vivid in his mind.

But so was the rage. A furious, wild, raw emotion bursting from a very unstable man, getting more and more rickety just because he was being manipulated, _and didn't even know it_. Bruce could still feel the fading throb on his chest and abdomen, where he'd been so viciously stabbed. The last injuries he sustained. Joker had never stopped being dangerous, but the success had been so wholesome that it was a sacrifice Bruce was happy to make. Watching the maniac splinter above him was a pleasure he didn't realise he enjoyed.

Watching him being taken away by the police had been fascinating; panic and furious desperation from the Joker wasn't something he'd witnessed before. And always, always searching through the cracks of the throngs for officers for Batman. Did he _need_ Batman? Was it concern, dependence? Whatever it was, it was just another weapon on his utility belt.

He had then spent a few days preparing for Joker in Arkham. He'd be in a different environment this time, and it had to be assessed as to whether he was comfortable or not, or made confident. It turned out the Joker was not emboldened by his new surroundings at all. Apparantly the bleak room, that lack the mental stimulation he needed to keep running, just heightened his growing inner anxieties.

When Bruce had entered, he'd discovered Joker on the floor; the height gave him another advantage, putting him at even more extraordinary ease. The Joker's humour kept changing, stopped and started; his frantic manner of everything he did in comparison to the Batman's very strong certainty made him even more enthused in his acting. Bruce had the same argument every time, so overwhelming and hypothetically valid that the Joker could not question it; _it's all in your head, you're crazy, you don't know anything, this is just how you want it_.

Everything had been so perfect that the days spent until the next visit had been riddled with a sick kind of pride. Everything was going accordingly; all hitches had been steamrolled over. In his confidence Bruce had to often bring himself down from his high, mentioning to himself the Joker was still a wild-card. Bruce would never truly predict what he'd come out with. He had to keep his pace steady to avoid being caught out and being left floundering. Just like Joker's sexual comment. Instead of panicking, he had to just dismiss it.

Everything else was pretty non-descript, except for Bruce's idea about the face. He'd been inspired just a day before he was scheduled before the second visit in Joker's cell, and discussed it emotionlessly to the rest of the team. Anxious, worried glances had been exchanged in front of him but he was having none of it. It would be the last little shove that would put Joker over the edge. Batman was sure that this kind of shock would ground everything, their entire scheme, to a victorious close. Without any genuine approval, it was allowed.

His fry up was going cold, and it had hardly been touched. His tea was almost gone. He remembered the look on the Joker's face when he'd pulled off his mask, sneakily placing the eye-prosthetics last to finish the appearance. He remembered not seeing much through the fleshy material, but noticing a stillness and the sharp intake of choked breath. Then the scream.

He'd left, his job had been done; the screaming confirmed the Joker had well and truly lost it. What he'd lost? Bruce didn't stop to care. Before he left he had cast a cold glance, tired and grim from his impromptu success, to see what the finished product was.

Bruce put down his tea. The look on the Joker's face has been raw, fixed horror, multiple layers of distress bristling from the utter jolted shock of what he had witnessed. His black, sunken eyes were still bulging, fixed to the raised point where everything had shattered. He got reports from Arkham that the screams had gone well into the morning, finally knocking himself unconscious from a bout of hyperventilation, though his vitals were reported fine (if not severely paced and weary). And that was that.

But yet Bruce could not bring himself to eat the small feast in front of him, his trained appetite having dwindled. He couldn't celebrate his bitter victory, because in turn Bruce suspected the food's taste would fade and embitter.

It was over. The fight for Gotham's soul was relinquished to its people, a vigilante and a psychopath fading into the night and bleached, padded walls. No more patrols, no more sleep-deprivation as he watched over his precious city – Batman's precious city. Bruce, out of manners and pure appreciation for Alfred's efforts, forced down a sausage as naturally as he could. It wasn't a playground or a precious city to anyone, not anymore, because Batman wasn't needed or wanted by the citizens. Batman was over.

And so began the new era of Bruce Wayne. He no longer needed the façade of that irresponsible, bratty playboy flashing cheques to get what he wanted; he no longer needed to avert attention. The small issue of drawing attention from the fall of Batman and the rise of Bruce Wayne had a simple, plausible answer; Bruce had sat and watched the city grow worse for worse throughout his life after his parents' death for too long. Since it had been almost a week since Batman had utterly disappeared, the tabloids were already mad with gossip and rumours Bruce himself had started up at 2 charity events after he had finished with his crusade, demanding; where was Batman? Bruce had an interview with several of Gotham's papers, all at one conference, to announce his good change in direction scheduled in the mid afternoon.

Bruce Wayne would become immersed back into his family business, actively attend more events, be responsible and sharing to those in need with his fortune; he wasn't doing to just throw cash to the sky for people to scramble for anymore. He even planned, with a sad smile, to help reconstruct Wayne Manor. He wasn't a trained construction worker but he wasn't embarrassed to be taught word for word, action for action, how he could be useful. He had the stamina and the determination afterall. And as Bruce Wayne's reputation returned, Gotham's cautious citizens would fill with hope for a more positive future. And it's no less than they deserved.

Yet through all his daydreaming, he couldn't relax, couldn't indulge or look forward. Still on his mind was that pale, distress-lined face of the psychotic man who haunted his nights, his fixed expression at the Batman's ultimate betrayal. Could not push the sound of his terrified shrieks from his ears.

Bruce put down his cutlery, having attempted only a small portion of the meal, his stomach now starting to protest. Alfred looked at him, face tinged with concern. Bruce returned the gaze, taking in his perfect posture still edged with relaxation, having been enjoying his own tea while Bruce ate. Not wanting to worry his old friend, Bruce smiled.

"Maybe I'm just too used to my old diet, Alfred."

Alfred's eyes crinkled in amusement, lip quirking. "Too much too soon, Master Bruce?"

"Yeah, I think I'll stick to this from now on. For now anyway." Bruce plucked up a red apple from the small fruit bowl in the middle of the table, and left his old friend to his own devices.

"And where are you planning to go, Master Bruce? The conference isn't for another 4 hours."

Bruce looked back at him as he strode away, expression sombre and thoughtful. "It's the end of an era, Alfred. I just need…..closure." And with that he left to get ready.

---

Bruce's guides looked slightly perplexed as he climbed from his LamborghiniMurcielago at the gates of Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. He'd phoned their discreet number an hour previous explaining how he, Bruce Wayne, was turning over a new leaf now that Gotham needed him to be responsible, since 'that damned vigilante' had finally ran off into the night. He needed to see proof that the murdering psychopath nicknamed 'The Joker' was going to stay incarcerated, having heard he had escaped custody almost instantaneously the right time round. Enough was enough of his childish antics; he just wanted his hopes confirmed. In return, he had offered, without the slightest sleazy hint of a bribe, to donate extraordinarily to their facility if he saw what a good job they were doing – and to make sure it stayed that way.

Taken aback by the genuine and steady tone of his voice, and now even more so at the lack of his cheeky demeanour, they had to shake themselves from a suspicious stupor to shake his hand.

"I'm grateful for you taking the time for me, I don't want to intrude or anything." He said with a soft smile.

Stupefied by his manners, the infamous Bruce Wayne was escorted into the building.

Bruce was grateful for not being ogled at by all passers-by, all manners of staff alike. He still got lingering glances and double takes but he found he wasn't so irritated by the reverent attention anymore. Not because he'd become vain, but because he didn't have to smirk and wink back at them, not have to spread a cheeky grin and add a hint of a swagger. He wasn't wearing the most fashionable, most expensive suit either; it was rather casual, but still crisp, respectable and able to pinpoint him as the last member of the Wayne family. He was Bruce Wayne, the true Bruce Wayne, not just a glossy figure for eye candy purpose only. He was himself, nothing more, nothing less. It was a good, settling feeling.

He and his guide never encountered any of the patients; Bruce already knew the Arkham router, so had conveniently called and arranged when the majority of the patients in this part of the building weren't being circled around to recreation, therapy or exercise. A detail that the staff had obviously not taken heed of. They were just glad they didn't have to arrange any diversions or alter the timetable.

Throughout the Joker's admission, he had been moved a few times; when he first arrived, the Joker had been set in a standard cell, a long hallway of numbered doors for an array of patients, almost like a waiting room for their mental condition to be assessed, and to be matched to the best timetable and environment. After witnessing the first discussion, the staff had been quick to relocate him to a more specialized ward. But Bruce knew that even the sparsely-populated ward was not enough. The asylum could afford extreme cases to be isolated from the rest of the buildings population, and that is where Bruce assumed the Joker had been finally relocated.

He was right. A manner of identification swipe cards down a long, spacious corridor obstructed with 4 separately code-locked double doors brought him to a sole, reinforced door. It wasn't dead ahead like the cliché he had imagined; a lone cell lying sinisterly at the last stretch of the silent walk. It was however at the end of the hall, but the door was to the left.

"You understand, Mr Wayne, there is no authorisation for you to enter the room, or even communicate with him," His guide was saying. It was obvious that they still suspected cheques to be shoved into their imploring hands. "For obvious reasons."

"I understand," Bruce reassured calmly, softly, not at all showing any offence. His gaze was on the door as they steadily approached. "This madman has torn down so much my family worked to build. I just have to see for myself that Gotham is safe from him. And that he is safe from himself." He gave the member of staff a grim, sympathetic look, but the sentiment was hollow.

They were finally in front of the steel door, painted a dark umber, almost giving the impression of varnished wood. But the domed bolts around the edges weren't difficult to spot bordering the edge. Entrance required a swipe from a separate card, of higher security, it looked like; the machine differed slightly from the ones at the door, slimming down the chances of someone inside causing a breakout for such an isolated patient.

There was a pause of recognition; _here we are, at the cell of the most hated and feared man in all nations this side of the world_. Bruce even shared a very small, bracing breath as the member of staff slid the steel slide off the viewing window. He took a half step and looked inside.

The padded, smooth faces of the box were pale in colour, uninteresting and calm to Bruce. It took another lean for him to peer inside properly, judging the thickness of the door. Then he really looked.

On the floor, in the far right corner, a man resided. Knees drawn tight against his chest and arms restricted by the abnormally long sleeved jacket. The Joker was rocking back and forth, the pace slowing and fastening, on and off, at different intervals. The paint had been removed from his face completely now, the oily green having been rinsed away to reveal dirty blonde curls, though the tips weren't quite rid of the dye.

His face was sickly and losing its natural tan from extended lack of sunlight, sunken eyes surrounded by a bruise-like black from sleep deprivation. The absence of red smeared over cheeks no longer held the infamous scars in vivid relief, but the dark pink ruination remained protruding and curled deep into his cheeks and lower lip. His mouth was working, whispering a string of nothings, incomprehensible, going on until he ran out of breath and continuing as he drew another one, the only vocal expression of the shattered abyss within. His eyes were black glass, fixed unseeingly to the floor, body manic and alive with his dark energy.

His limited movement was jittery and riddled with stop-starts, his head jerking sideways on his neck sharply, then back again, then squeezing his eyes shut and whispering growing more intense. His pale yellow teeth were just visible as his lips drew back, bearing them, lines appearing at the bridge of his nose as his eyes were screwed ever tighter. Somewhere in the rib area he flinched hard, from pain on another realm, expression shifting through distress and despair, mouth falling slack, his bottom lip quivering as he choked out a sob. The sound was loud compared to the silence, only filled by his incessant shifting.

The expression bled away from his face, leaving it haunted and withdrawn again as eyes cracked open in torment and fatigue, finding another spot to fix upon and the whispering continued.

Before Bruce he saw nothing but a man. Harmless, isolated, deranged. Broken.

Good.

"I think I've seen enough." Bruce said finally, quietly, gaze dragging away from the pitiful figure and standing straight, meeting the gaze of his guide. The member of staff nodded, expression a mixture of pity and acceptance. He had a conference to go to.

---

He looked up, something had reached his numbed senses, the sounds waves reverberate in his eardrum to confirm what he'd heard. Something solid, something real….a voice. Desperation clung to him like a suffocating vacuum all of a sudden, and he managed to tell his head to turn, to look, to search. Colour, that wasn't off-colour white padding, a small, beautiful mercy, hit his eyes. Skin, warm, young, real skin, healthily tanned from _sunlight_, space, movement, walking, _day and night_. Features and shapes that weren't the 6 planes around him. He thirsted, thirsted and hungered for whatever it was, something else, but the presence of a presence forced upon him, remove it, _remove it_. Go. _Away_. _Stay_!

Joker could make out the top of a crisp shirt collar. White. Real white. Clean cotton white. A strong, young neck. A masculine curve to the jawline. An angular, strong chin; shapely, stern, soft lips.

There was a distant flutter of something, something familiar, something the Joker knew, remembered, considered, something, _don't remember, don't want!_, important, certain, _gone_, something that wasn't the blackness full of demented shapes that danced in his minds eye when he squeezed his eyes tight, right there, flesh and blood and scent just beyond the steel, _go away!_, so close.

Attention drawing back within, the Joker looked, but did not see, and turned his eyes back to the floor, cherishing the image but forgetting it almost immediately. Already gone.

The viewing plate slid back into place with a quiet snap.

-----

And so A Little Push comes to a close. Is it the end..?  
Course not. I am already drafting up the sequel, which I am hoping will have alot more chapters!  
Please please _please_ review, I need to hear what you thought of this chapter, the story, what you're hoping to expect and whether you think some slash needs to occur; everything!


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